


letting go

by fishysama



Series: trifiesta 2019!!! [4]
Category: Sekai-ichi Hatsukoi
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sad boi hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-13 08:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19247791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishysama/pseuds/fishysama
Summary: trifiesta day 4: free prompt /auyokozawa tries to let go in all the wrong ways.





	letting go

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is based off a twitter thread ([here!](https://twitter.com/sixthformpoet/status/1137658720698228736)) but i wouldn't read it until u finish reading the fic lol  
> the au is basically that takano committed suicide soon after getting out of college. yoink.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

When Yokozawa would look at the headstone, he would only read the name printed. It wasn’t ignorance, it was coping. The dates, the cause, the quote, the religious engravement that the parents wanted but he didn’t: Yokozawa turns a blind eye to that. But the name, oh, the name. Yokozawa speaks it to himself as he places the flowers at its base, hugging the stone, kissing the granite. Lilies, carnations, chrysanthemums.  _ Masamune, Masamune, Masamune. _ Kissing dark granite. _ I miss you so, Masamune, Masamune. _ Red roses.  _ Masamune. I miss you, Masamune. _

 

* * *

 

Yokozawa visits the grave of his beloved weekly since the day he took his own life (forget those words!). It was overkill, everyone said it was overkill. His mother: “Overkill.”; his father: “Overkill.”; every past and every future lover: “Overkill.”; his cat, even, glaring at him:  _ Overkill. _ But, for Yokozawa, it was coping. It was letting go. It takes years for some to let go. It takes decades.

But it seems, for some, it only takes seconds. The grave beside Masamune’s reads the strangely familiar name “Oshiro Takehiko.” He did look at the date for this one. It was very close to Masamune’s passing; he can remember the freshness of the tilled earth of that patch on the day of Masamune’s funeral (stop thinking of it!). But there were never flowers, never gifts, not even on holidays, not even the anniversary. It made him feel sick.  _ How could no one care? _

_ How could I not care? _

 

* * *

 

The twenty-fifth of December is not Christmas, it is Masamune’s birthday. It was a day meant for Yokozawa to shower him with gifts and affection: red roses (they were Masamune’s favorite), dark chocolates, lots of hugs and kisses and rubs to keep warm. Was it sick for him to be excited?

Yokozawa treads along the frozen ground of the cemetery, taking the path he had memorized long ago. Thankfully, no other families were visiting in the area (especially Masamune’s!), so Yokozawa could spend as much time as he wanted.

 

When he sees the monument— a smooth, rounded rectangle— Yokozawa feels his cheeks light up. “Hi, Masamune.” He dips his head in prayer for several minutes before sitting beside him; the lot next to him was still not taken, “How are you?”

Masamune doesn’t respond. He’s been quiet recently.

“Well,” Yokozawa rubs the back of the tombstone, “Happy birthday!! Your twenty-sixth, huh? I brought you some gifts.” He reveals a bag of chocolates and beer, as well as a big bouquet of flowers. “Let’s celebrate!” He cracks open a can of  _ Usagi, _ taking a few swigs before pouring the rest into the frozen earth.

A sudden chilled breeze comes in, whipping back Yokozawa’s hair and tickling his cheeks. He smiles a melancholy smile and leans his head on the stone. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it.”

 

Yokozawa talks for an eternity, about work, about missing him at work. He thinks of the bad thing and cries a bit. He drinks more, he eats more chocolates. His lips turn bluish. “I miss you, Masamune,” running his hands up and down the smooth rock, cursing at the chips that roughen his fingers, “I miss you. Masamune, Masamune. I love you, Masamune. I love you. You know I still love you, right?”

A chilled breeze. He cries more.

 

When Yokozawa feels himself getting too delusional and a bit more than tipsy, he begins packing up. The rest of the beer is dumped into the ground, leftover chocolates sitting at the stone’s base. Yokozawa decorates his grave with flowers and kisses him goodbye, a slow, meaningful goodbye. “I’ll visit next Sunday, okay?”

He turns to his right and sees the empty grave. When all the others are filled with gifts, Takehiko’s is empty. A lump in his throat.

“Forgive me, Masamune.”

One rose from the bouquet is transferred a meter over. Yokozawa bows his head. “...Merry Christmas, Oshiro-san.”

 

* * *

 

Yokozawa sits at his desk, searching through survey results with little enthusiasm. His brain can’t stop thinking about Masamune, about today’s cemetery visit. If he’s not there, talking and being near  _ him, _ he’s daydreaming about it. He’s waiting, always waiting. And as much as he wants to believe this is about letting go, he knows it’s about obsession.

_ Miss you. _

Yokozawa began to develop a comradery with the man that lays next to his love, they were both lonely, both constantly waiting. The single flower Yokozawa liked to leave at Oshiro-san’s grave every few visits has turned into the deceased’s personal bouquet. Yokozawa feels guilty for delivering the flowers; he has a fear that Masamune will feel abandoned or jealous or lonely too.

“They’re both dead,” he can hear his mother scolding him in his head, “Why do you care?”

And he doesn’t know. He doesn’t.

_ Oh god, _ Yokozawa grinds his knuckle into his jaw, _ There’s something wrong with me. _

 

Fully aware that the work he was getting done was negligible, he gives up. A new tab opens; Google. He types in Oshiro’s name, hoping that this doesn’t count as being intrusive or disrespecting the dead. Those worries leave his mind, however, when the search recommendations pop up. Oshiro Takehiko  _ murder, _ Oshiro Takehiko  _ victims, _ Oshiro Takehiko  _ suicide _ (bad word!), Oshiro Takehiko  _ pregnant women, _ Oshiro Takehiko  _ crime scene:  _ his stomach turns sour.

After a near hour of reading Wikipedia articles and getting progressively sicker, he realizes he’s made a huge mistake. His graveyard friend, Oshiro Takehiko, was apparently a serial murderer of heavily pregnant women and Yokozawa feels so, so very ill. He makes a small list of victims and their burial places and changes his afternoon plans. Breaking his promise to visit Masamune felt awful, but the fact that he was  _ regularly delivering flowers to a serial killer _ surpassed that.

 

“Yokozawa-san?”

The salesman spins around in his chair, quickly going back to the page of data. “W-What?”

Henmi scratches the back of his neck, “Um, didn’t you say you had to leave for a doctor’s appointment at 3?”

He wets his lips, craning his neck to check the clock: 15:25. “Oh,” he flashes a smile, “I completely forgot.”

 

* * *

 

Kirishima Sakura, the first victim, was stabbed to death in the kitchen of her apartment. Her husband, after being woken by screaming, called 119. She died quickly in the ambulance. Miraculously, though, the baby survived: a little girl. She was buried in Aoyama cemetery and had a private funeral. Now, somewhere, there’s a ten-year-old girl with no mother. Yokozawa sends his wishes with the biggest bouquet he’s ever bought.

He searches through the cemetery for the headstone; he got directions from the funeral home but forgot them right after. After far too long, Yokozawa seems to have found it; he recognizes the large oak tree the keeper was talking about. There’s an issue, however.

 

A man and a little girl have their heads dipped in prayer. The man’s back shakes erratically; Yokozawa can hear him cry. They hold hands.

_ Shit. _ Yokozawa stands a few meters away, waiting for them to finish.  _ Bad timing. _

The man wipes off his tears on his sleeve and turns around to leave—

“Yokozawa-san?”

**_Shit._ ** _ Worst timing. _

Yokozawa recognized him instantly, immediately getting red in the face. He always screamed at this guy during print-run meetings, always shot him dirty looks for days after them, and never thought of him, his home life. He did hear rumors though, ones that he can’t remember a lick of. Kirishima Zen, editor-in-chief of  _ Japun  _ magazine, approaches him with tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes. “What a-are you doing here?”

**_Shiiiiiiiiiiittttttt._ ** Yokozawa intensely stares at the ground. “I— um, well…” He looks at the little girl, her glossy eyes. “I… Ah, this is such a weird situation. It’s just, um, there was this guy at this other cemetery that I visit a lot and he never got any flowers so I felt bad about it and started giving him flowers too and then I just looked his name up and oh my God, I’m an idiot and he…” Face completely red, he looks up at Kirishima. He makes the shape of “oh” with his lips but doesn’t make a sound. “S-So I wanted to come and b-bring her some flowers because oh God I’m an awful person and I want to make it up to her and you and everyone else—”

“Yokozawa-san,” he chuckles under his breath, “It’s fine. I’m fine, I mean. You don’t have to be careful. It was a long time ago.” He looks off to the side. “Thank you, though. Thank you so much.”

His mouth goes dry. He doesn’t really know what else to say. But Kirishima smiles at him and doesn’t try to hide it. Like he’s happy. “Why are you grinning like that?”

“What!?” he laughs, “Am I not allowed to smile now? Just because I’m a widow, doesn’t mean I have to be sad all the time.” The girl begins to tug on Kirishima’s leg, impatient. “It’s just, you talk very fast when you get nervous. It’s cute.”

Yokozawa would punch this guy in the face under any other circumstance, but right now, he blushes a deep crimson. “O-Okay…”

“Listen,” he musses the girl’s hair, “My Hiyori’s sleeping over at a friend’s house tonight so I’ve got no plans,” he pulls out his cell phone and flips it open, “If you’d like to go out for a drink or two, gimme a text.” He hands the phone over.

 

Maybe it doesn’t take years to let go, maybe not decades. Maybe all it takes is a good mug of beer and charming company.

“O-Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://juroguro.tumblr.com/)


End file.
